


Kenny's First Memory

by holographicghost



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, I already had this half-written tbh, I proofread it but idk if I caught all the spelling errors, I'm going into the angst bubble, Ice Cream, Kenny writes stuff, The mccormick family TV special, and slicked back hair, bad living situations, borderline abusive home life, crying baby, he likes writing, just kidding, nice guy jerry, or at least he would if these writing prompts weren't so damn invasive, trigger warning for um..., with his ice cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holographicghost/pseuds/holographicghost
Summary: "Write about your first memory," the prompt said. "Fabricate details, try your best!"This is what Kenny writes, as well as his thoughts on the subject. Everyone knows he's poor.





	Kenny's First Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so someone said they wanted me to write about Kenny's life [among other things] and I already had this half written so I thought "Why not,right?" anyway, tell me what you want! I probably already have something partially written for it too

I guess it all started when I was younger. I never could believe I was real-that I was, unequivocally, wholly, alive. Like every time I die, a part of me dies too. That we’re all different people, all dressed in orange parkas parading through the streets silently with muffled voices that nobody ever listens to. And I want to be alive forever, but then I’m not. Then I do it- I get a terrible feeling. It’s like violence, this terrible, self destructive violence that makes me want to rip myself in half and bathe in my own blood. It hurts to die, it hurts to die and nobody understands. 

Now, before I go all Elizabeth Bathory here, I would like to say that self harm is not high on the list of priorities for me. I have no urge to hurt myself out of self loathing; I hate feeling pain and do not think I should have any wounds anywhere, as I do not deserve them. However, sometimes I sit at my lunch table surrounded by people and realize how terrible it is to have a giant wall between us. I can’t believe some people have never gone through what I have. 

I guess it all started when I was younger. 

I sit at my desk, absentmindedly tapping my pencil to the top of the wooden surface and probably annoying the hell out of everyone near me. The assignment is to write about ‘your first memory’. This would be a hard prompt for anyone for a multitude of reasons: memory, writing ability, lack of interesting stories…  
How was he supposed to tell anyone that his first memory was of him in his poorly insulated house wishing to god, buddha, anyone, to stop the monsters going at it from behind his bedroom wall?  
Parents fight, it’s what they do.   
My first memory was when I was really young, before I started first grade, that much I know. November 7, he was three years old. It was cold, so I was holding my teddy bear -hey, I was young, remember? My older brother had been at his friend's house. He does that a lot, totally skip out on us when it gets tough. My mom was holding Karen -thats my sister- and she was about to go stay with her mom for a bit, and taking my lil sis with her. She was going to take away Karen and go stay with her mom until my dad did something. She was gone for over a month. Kevin and I practically starved, I still don’t know what mom wanted. I thought it was me, and I did something wrong. It was only until a few years later I knew it was my dad. But I still think so, sometimes, that it’s my fault. That its mine and Kevin’s fault that mom kept leaving us and eventually Karen too. I guess that’s normal for us. 

My mom needed to get Karen to the doctor, because she was born with respiratory problems. When she was gone, my dad would sometimes give us ice cream. He’d get one of his friends from god knows where to babysit us. I liked it better when Dad was there with us, because I already missed mom, but my dad’s friend was pretty nice. His name was Jerry, and he gave us ice cream out of a tub. Saw him take off the plastic fresh and everything. Then he’d give us a few sips of his coffee, and read us the newspaper in funny voices. He always had jell in his hair, and I liked to look at it and pretend I did, too. 

“Fabricate details”, the assignment said, “Be creative, keep it realistic”. What’s realism to a fairy tale?  
Karen was crying of course, because that’s what babies do a lot. I was in my room, so I could only hear the muffled voices of my parents talking over the fussy baby. They said something about hospital bills but I couldn’t be sure. Of course they were fighting about many things. It probably wasn’t even about money. But whatever it was, couldn’t have been good. My mom left me soon after.

I stop writing well before anyone else. With a measly one paragraph, I probably wasn’t about to get an A on this. I look away and then back at my paper thoughtfully. I jot down one more line, for the teacher.   
My mom goes away a lot. Usually though, she doesn’t take Karen.

I’m sure she won’t care. Teachers here are infamous for that.

**Author's Note:**

> comments keep me writing!


End file.
